Conversations with a Partisan
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "Oh when we were younger, and we would go to bed at the beach house, mama and Joe would have one of those bottles of wine and talk politics. And my goodness did they disagree." Pierre laughed, "I'd awake to – friendly – raised voices." A gift for Wild Mei Ling, who let me steal a brilliant idea. Definitely an M rating, I don't know what has come over me.
**Author's note:** Ah, so this is almost bordering on theft (a joke, for those immediately concerned). This story was inspired by Wild Mei Ling's drabble, in 'The Drabble File', about Joe's political leanings. We had a conversation about it, one thing led to another, and somehow this story was the product of that. **Wild Mei Ling** gave her permission and has obviously had the preview, but this is nonetheless her gift and dedicated to her for that.

 **Disclaimer:** None of the characters herein belong to me, though the plot might (I'm never sure on that) and I make no monetary gain from writing. Any rights that must be recognised belong to Meg Cabot, Disney and their associates.

Conversations with a Partisan

The butler reached across, removed the plate from in front of her, and then seamlessly set down the dessert. The bottle of wine in the middle was half-finished and if she remembered it was the third of the dinner. She couldn't recall though because she felt relaxed and boneless and a little less alert than she normally was.

"Mama," Pierre smiled, set about the sweet as he was prone to do, "A good choice."

"Still as excited by dessert as he always was," Clarisse smiled, directing her comment to the man at the other end of small the table.

"Did my dad like desserts as much?"

Mia asked through a mouthful of cake. Typically Clarisse would have scolded her but tonight it was family and there was a casualness she both revelled in and found unusual. So she smiled instead, as Joseph answered.

"No. He didn't discern between courses…he devoured all of his food as equally."

Mia giggled.

"I was always shocked he didn't become humungous," Pierre laughed, and held his arms out for emphasis, "He was a chubby baby, huge."

Clarisse rolled her eyes, "All babies are chubby. You were chubby Pierre, fatter if I recall."

Her son leaned over clumsily and kissed her cheek and she indulged him, ruffling his hair as he moved away, as if he was a child again. She noticed that it was thinning at the top, similar to the way Rupert's had at that age.

"Who was the grumpiest baby?" Mia queried.

Clarisse gave the question a thought, "Neither of them were grumpy, per se. Phillippe was so noisy though, he babbled from the moment he was born. Pierre was always quite a quiet child, really."

"Phillippe was like a foghorn," joseph said over his wine glass, "He used to just sing, right at the top of his voice, for hours. I used to pick him up from school in the city and he'd talk from the moment he got in the car to the moment we arrived here. Then he'd talk some more."

At this he smiled cheekily at Mia, who was blushing at the accusation.

"Remember," Pierre paused to laugh loudly, and Clarisse enjoyed it immensely, "Remember that time we were going to the beach house, and Joe was in such a foul mood-"

"Joseph, really?"

Clarisse couldn't pass up the chance at sarcasm.

Joseph shot her a dark look before taking another gulp of his wine.

"And he sang so loudly that Joseph lifted him bodily out of the car and left him at the side of the road," Pierre breathed through his laughter and cuffed Joseph on the shoulder, "And he stood there still, singing the national anthem at the top of his voice. Joseph eventually relented and reversed."

"You didn't leave him?" Mia was smiling, but with incredulity, "Grandma, you didn't let him!"

"Oh Phillippe was perfectly safe, the security car was just behind us," she motioned with a casual hand, "And he was so annoying, I had to agree with Joseph. At any rate, Joseph was in charge of our car journeys. God forbid we upset him."

"Or his music choices," Pierre laughed, "Joe you were so serious all the time."

He smiled, his eyes flittering over her, but instantly away again, "I had a lot on my mind, all the time."

"Have you softened as you've gotten older Joseph?"

Mia asked, setting her now empty plate aside and lifting up her own glass.

It was Genovia, and Clarisse thought making her wait until she was twenty-one was just absurd, because the children in Southern Europe drank wine with dinner from their late childhood. She was nineteen now, and growing even more curious – if that were possible – about the family. Clarisse had noticed that this summer. Every time they were alone there were questions; about her marriage, about her sons, about the past and historical events and decisions. Amelia wanted to know everything because soon she'd be carrying the title, and it was imperative she was able to understand every delicate detail.

These dinners, too, had become a platform for her questions.

He made to answer, but she found herself answering for him.

"Yes, he has."

"Excuse me, Your Majesty, "Joseph laughed, "But I think I can answer that."

"You will lie," she smiled, setting down her empty glass.

He reached across the intimate table, knowing she couldn't possibly be seen to refuse, and refilled her glass with the wine. She shook her head but let him pour anyway.

"I would never," he smiled, then turned to Mia, "I suppose I have softened. I'm less serious, if that's what Her Majesty means."

"Less grumpy too," Pierre smiled, "Though Joe was always good to us, he always played with us. And he was always a trusted advisor of my father, later Phillippe…then mama."

At the mention of Rupert, though she knew he didn't mean it, Joseph's eyes darkened for a moment. In the time between her husband's death and now, unusually, it appeared her late husband had lowered in Joseph's estimations. Or, maybe now, she was just seeing what she'd always ignored in the past. He hadn't liked Rupert, she had come to understand, even though he'd been nothing but professional.

It certainly hadn't been easy to like Rupert, she had to admit.

"I suppose I do mean that. For example, we can now talk politics without arguing, can't we Joseph?"

He rolled his eyes at her veiled reference to the night before when they had ended up discussing the merits of socialism. They differed little in their moral concepts but hugely in political ideals.

"What do you mean?"

Mia looked at Joseph over her wine glass.

"Oh when we were younger, and we would go to bed at the beach house, mama and Joe would have one of those bottles of wine and talk politics. And my goodness did they disagree." Pierre laughed, "I'd awake to – friendly – raised voices."

"That's why we don't talk politics anymore, Your Majesty?"

She raised an eye brow.

"I don't get it, why would it be so terrible?" Mia asked, genuinely curious.

"Because both of them are so…"Pierre pretended to look for the words, "Pig-headed."

"Excuse me," Clarisse was half-irritated and half-amused at her son's bravery, "I don't think that's appropriate."

Joseph bristled falsely, "I have to jump to my sparring partner's defence here. She's incredibly clever, and it's passion rather than pig-headedness."

She felt a blush, encouraged by the wine, climbing onto her face. Every time he called her passionate, she knew he didn't mean it in whatever context he happened to use it. It meant something else entirely. He smiled at her, motioned with his glass a little, and settled back.

"Do you want me to jump to your defence now, Joseph?"

"It seems only fair."

She turned to her granddaughter, "For a republican, he's very persuasive."

Joseph laughed loudly at her, and so did Pierre, but Mia seemed a little confused. Then her confusion changed into blankness, swiftly to be wiped away and replaced with disappointment.

"What do you mean?"

Pierre was still laughing, "Mama means our Head of Security is a die-hard anti-royalist."

"That's a bit much," Joseph's eyes flew towards Clarisse again, "There are some royals I like."

The others weren't listening though.

"Mia, don't be so upset," Pierre was saying, his voice suddenly grave.

"I just…" her granddaughter turned to Joseph as she slid her glass across the table, "Joe, I didn't know."

She said it as if he'd just told her he had committed murder. Clarisse realised, suddenly, Amelia seemed wounded by the revelation.

"Amelia," she said softly, touching the girl's hand, "I hardly think it's the end of the world."

"But it's Joseph," she said, as if that explained it all, "Joe. How can Joe be a republican? You're so close…"

"Hey," Joseph said kindly, "You don't have to be so upset Amelia. It's just a difference in opinion…"

"I don't get it though, "she answered," How you can defend something you don't…"

She shook her head and stood, her serviette slipping from her lap and onto the floor.

"Grandma, can I be excused?"

"Mia," Joseph stood quickly, "You aren't really upset, are you?"

She shook her head, but Clarisse knew she was lying instantly. Her hand curled up her back to fiddle with the end of her braid; a sure, and poor, tell of Mia's attempt at duplicity.

"I'm cool, I'm just tired," she reached up and kissed the Head of Security's cheek, "I mean it."

They watched her go and were silent for a while.

"Will I go speak to her?" Pierre asked.

"I think you best leave it darling," Clarisse answered, "She's so sensitive to everything right now and I mean that in the kindest way. She just isn't great at calculating differing opinions, or decisions she doesn't agree with. She's just trying to find what works for her."

"Hey, I remember when I first found out I was in complete awe," Pierre laughed, "It made me love you even more Joe."

Clarisse moaned a little, "God was punishing me when he made the crown price, my first born, a republican too."

"Thank God I didn't tell her mama," Pierre laughed, "I think we'll keep that a secret from my niece, don't you?"

Joseph had been quiet in the process of their conversation.

"Joseph," she said kindly, "She'll be fine come tomorrow."

He laughed, but it was small and distant.

"Right, I am going to retire mama," Pierre stood unsteadily, "I haven't had this amount of wine in a while."

He bent down to kiss her, leaning heavily on the arm of her chair. Then he turned and did the same thing to Joseph, who pushed him away.

"Sometimes I think Phillippe isn't gone at all, with behaviour like that," Joe cuffed him on the shoulder, "Goodnight kid."

"Goodnight Joe," he smiled and, scooping up the sloshing bottle of wine, took it with him as he left her suite.

"There goes our nightcap," she smiled.

"At least you have whiskey," he said, but he was preoccupied.

"I do," she motioned to the staff to begin the clear up and as they did, she ordered, "After you are finished, you may leave us for the night. I don't need a maid, you may let Olivia know."

The Butler nodded and did so swiftly, the footmen moving efficiently, so that they were alone in minutes. The household staff were good this way, though they had little in the way of information at any rate.

"Joseph, you are far away," she accused softly, standing and moving behind him and setting her hands on his shoulders. She moved to rub them and he groaned deeply.

She felt his trouble seep into her hands.

"Were you so upset when I told you?" He asked, and he was serious.

"Goodness no," she laughed, "I just adored arguing with you. And anyway, you're clever enough to convince me…at times."

"She's really beat up about it Clarisse," he said, "I feel like I messed up."

She leaned over him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He turned his face to kiss her cheek but she trailed towards his lips. The kiss was slow and wine-laced, clumsily romantic.

"I said it," she squeezed his shoulder again and moved away, going to the decanter and pouring two drinks for them, "I am the one who gave you away. "

"You make it sound like a crime," he said, rather gruffly.

She turned to him and smiled, which she knew would soften him. He shook his head and gave an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to snap."

"It _is_ a crime darling," she handed him the crystal tumbler and smiled as he flopped down on the couch.

She joined him, rather more delicately, and placed her feet in his lap. She wiggled them and, while he rolled his eyes, he removed her shoes and let them fall to the floor. He set about his task as he continued to tease her.

"Well surely that means you're sleeping with the enemy," he laughed.

"I suppose it does," she agreed, "Traitor. How can you possibly think a republic is a good idea?"

"Really? You want to do this _again_? You'll never convince me Clarisse."

His hand slid up her ankle.

"It achieves the desired impact," she laughed as he tickled behind her knee, "Doesn't it? You become inflamed."

"I do," he agreed, "And anyway, there is a distinct unfairness in your system, Your Majesty."

"Why is that?"

She sat up, feigning her genuine curiosity – as if she hadn't heard this argument a million times before – and he played along.

"For starters, you are not elected," he flicked the first button on the front of her dress and she returned the favour by loosening his tie.

"Yes but the people want us. Unelected we might be, but we're the people's choice."

"The people _might_ ," he grinned as she stood and he stood with her, "There's no guarantee."

He reached out and flicked another button, then another, before her hand stopped his just at her naval. Her delicate fingers curled around his wrist.

"You were supposed to compel me with your argument in relation to the great revolution," she tried to be serious, but a giggle bubbled in her throat.

"Your Majesty," he didn't withdraw his hand, "Forgive, this lowly servant, his crude behaviour."

"Shut up."

He laughed as she swatted his chest.

"As I was saying," he continued, becoming distracted as her hand made light work of his shirt and she raked her nails along his pectorals, "I was saying…"

"Yes?"

"Unwanted. I was saying you're unelected, and that's fundamentally...mmmm….God….unfair," the last accusation was ambiguous as she slowly trailed her mouth down his chest.

He tasted of oranges and wine and a day's work. She was stunned, momentarily, by the handsomeness of his body.

He slid his shirt off and it fluttered to the floor.

"I know one person, right now, who particularly wants me," she smiled before she gripped his hips for leverage to get on her knees.

"Darling," he groaned as her hands went to his belt and she pulled it through the loops of his dress pants and dropped it to the floor with a soft thud, " _Your system_ , you, take advantage of honest men."

"Just one man," she said, the noise of his zipper cutting through the air.

He gasped as her hand disappeared into the black material.

"Fair enough," he groaned as she looked up, her eyes intentionally large, and his hands moved to the back of her head, "You've… made me a royalist. Happy?"

"Oh yes," she licked her lips, "Long live the queen."

-0-

He woke early, the sky was still a bruised, dusky blue, and he dipped his mouth to kiss her forehead. She stirred lightly and her arms tightened around his body. It made a smile rise in him, and the surge of disbelief he always felt surfaced too.

"Good morning my love," he said softly, regrettably, "But I have got to go".

"Before the maids arrive?"

He laughed, "Yes, before the maids arrive. Go back to sleep Clarisse," he gently rolled her away but she pulled his pillow towards her and settled it amongst her arms, "You don't start until later today. It is Sunday."

"Thank goodness," she murmured, and he couldn't resist reaching out to stroke her hair after he'd messily pulled on his clothes, "My head is throbbing."

He hadn't brought a change; he rarely, if ever, stayed in her chambers. When he did sleep, it was with a trepidation that meant the true relaxation to be sought in slumber was non-existent. He needed to go now, before the change of shift was over.

"I'll have tea sent up, shall I?"

She smiled.

"I love you."

"Even though I'm a republican?"

"Yes, even more so."

He stole through the joint door, then the dusty, ghostly king's chamber, then down into the servant's stairs. He went to his room quickly, changed into track pants, and then girded himself for a few punishing hours in the gym. Whenever he drank, he'd have a session as equally exhausting to make up for it. And that was his intention today, after he went to the kitchen to order her tea.

"Late one?"

Shades stepped off the treadmill, to make way for him, as he asked. He was wiping his brow with an old ratty towel Joseph hated but that Shades seemed to use as some sort of talisman.

"Yes," he nodded, taking the other man's place, "You're taking the early shift today."

"Yeah, but they're not going out at all today," Shades leaned against the arm bars.

"Doesn't make it any easier," Joseph breathed, ramping up the gradient on the treadmill, "There are lots of things we need to do."

"I am going to do some combat training with the core team, are you okay with that?"

"Yes," he agreed, wiping a hand across his brow.

"Watch your knees," Shades warned.

"Don't start," he felt the tightness growing, ebbing, and growing again in the joints of his legs, "We need to promote someone to core team for the Princess' ascension. Who do you think? I am going to talk to Her Majesty about it."

"I think Alex."

"Why?"

"He is really good sir," Shades argued, "And he's a huge royalist."

Joseph genuinely couldn't believe that this qualified as a reason at all. He slammed his hand onto the stop button and leaned over. He hadn't missed a breath, but it was harder than it used to be to recover from the burning in his muscles.

"Get me a water."

He motioned to the fully stocked cooler in the corner. Shades did as he was bid, and came back.

"I don't see how that makes him effective at his job," he cracked the lid and slugged half of the bottle, "I like him for it too, to be frank. But not for that reason."

"He's very loyal," Shades amended, not dissuaded by Joe's evident irritation, "Is probably a better way to put it. Plus he's logical in the extreme, but he's good at thinking on his feet too. He's earned it Joe."

He nodded his agreement and moved to the cross trainer, where Shades climbed on the one beside him.

"Shades, why does being a royalist seem so important?"

He rarely shared his political ideologies, or any other personal opinions, with his team. Even Shades, who he would consider a friend, was not privy to his personal beliefs.

"I just think, in Genovia, it's quite important. You always talk about loyalty."

He realised this was a conversation he wanted to have with someone else, and not with Shades. He slammed the machine to a stop and stepped off.

"I thought you'd take longer than that."

"Can't concentrate," he slung his towel around his neck and finished the bottle of water, "See you later."

After a quick shower, he made his way to the royal apartments but didn't go as far as the Queen's chambers. Instead he stopped at the first set of double doors and nodded to both footmen. Hans, one of his team who was wearing livery for this shift, answered his silent question.

"The princess is in, sir."

He nodded and tapped on the door.

"Come in."

He entered the chambers – vastly different from Clarisse's. The princess was gathering her hair, still wet, and tying it back with an elastic. She was wearing what he'd come to realise was the uniform of Renaldi women on a more relaxed day; an expensive shirt and slacks or, in Mia's case, jeans.

She tossed her head back.

"Joe," she seemed shocked to see him.

"Can we go for a walk Your Highness?"

She looked sheepish, "I'm not annoyed."

"Forgive me, Mia, but that's a lie," he said gently, "And it's not resting easy with me."

She shrugged.

"Right, let's go for a walk."

The morning was already promising a warm spring day, so she refused a jacket. They made first towards the tennis courts, and were almost at Clarisse's precious rose garden, before she spoke.

"I was just shocked."

"So I could see," he slid his glasses back from his face and onto his head.

"Joe, I can't believe it," she said, "And I know my reaction seems intense but it's just that…"

"You think you know someone and then..?" He finished for her.

"Exactly."

He was a bit smarted by her admission but he had led her into it, so it was hardly fair.

"Mia, it doesn't change who I am," he continued, "Honestly. Political opinions are a tiny part of someone. And only a fraction of who I am."

"Maybe I just assumed that you were, you know, a royalist."

"Why did you make that assumption?"

She paused for thought, and he watched her as she propped a foot up on the wrung of the horses' exercise yard. Her filly nuzzled up to her and she rubbed a hand over the beast's nose.

"I never asked," she answered, "But I assumed it because, well you know, you work here. Have done for years. You just struck me as someone who was into this, into this system."

"You've never asked how I came to work here," he answered.

She seemed momentarily embarrassed, "No I haven't."

"I owned a company, a securities company based in Madrid, and came here for a year as a consultant to the all military security…and I stayed. The Head of Security asked me at the time, and the money was good, and it would be exciting to put this on our client list. I still own a part, but not the controlling shares. Your grandfather asked me to stay, and I liked it, so I did. I was happy here. I was happy here. Nothing to do with politics, or support, or parties or governments – for the first time, in a long time, I was content. I was miserable in Madrid but I was happy here."

"Oh," she nodded, "But how can you be happy defending a system you don't agree with? You're our biggest advocate."

"You've seen it from both sides, you see the unfairness in it."

"That's not what I am saying," she said, "I'm working class. I'm asking how you can defend it. You're twisting my question."

He smiled and nudged her, "You went to private school, and you're at Princeton. I don't think so. You're not working class."

She laughed, "Fair enough. But I was a –"

She bit her tongue.

"Yeah, before you knew about your heritage, you would have happily have been in line with me and told me that you were a republican too. Then again, we wouldn't know each other. It saddens me you have been so impacted by my political beliefs. It makes me no less loyal to you, and your position. But it's an inherently unfair system. A family, unelected, ruling over people. It has nearly brought my country to its knees at times. It works here, in Genovia, and that's exceptional. But it's a wealthy, money-driven haven and that's not the case in most monarchies. It's an archaic idea, which is feudal and dangerous."

"Has grandma heard this speech?"

He laughed.

"Her Majesty has heard it countless times."

Mia turned to him, a look of extreme delight and incredulity mingling on her face.

"And she _still_ talks to you?"

"Mia," he chuckled, "Sometimes friendships are strengthened by difference in opinion. At the end of the day, we respect each other equally enough to discuss it and move on. She'll never convince me, though she tries. And I wouldn't dream of trying to convince her. She was brought up as royalty…"

Mia nodded and was silent for a moment.

"I thought you were more than just loyal to me," she nudged him shyly and she seemed, for now, content with his explanation, "I thought you loved me."

"I do," he smiled, "Do you love me?"

"I suppose I do," she grinned, "Just always imagined you were a royalist. God knows you've stuck around long enough to seem one."

"I care about the Renaldis," he said, "I didn't mean to, but by the end of the year, I ended up caring more than I should have. They're good people. And that was it. I am a Renaldi-ist I suppose."

In his own mind, he excluded Rupert from the roster of 'good people'.

She smiled a little then leaned into him and whispered, "One Renaldi in particular."

He let his glasses slide back onto his nose. He said nothing but he couldn't help the smile that crept on to his face.

"You're really a Clarisse-ist."

He simply laughed and turned to walk back. She jogged to keep up and when she reached him, she threaded her arm through his.

 **-0-**

"Mia decided on the right term for me earlier," he said, as she propped her feet in his lap again.

He hadn't seen her since he left her that morning, and tomorrow was Monday, and the week would steal their time. So tonight he'd stole into her chamber, brought tea and pastries, and decided he'd do his work here. He'd finished but she'd yet to set her folder aside.

"Oh?"

"Yes, she did."

She looked over her paper work which he promptly took from her and set on the coffee table beside them. He pushed it away in the folder and closed it over.

"Enough work."

"If you insist," she slid down a little more, giving absolutely no protest whatsoever.

"I do."

He went to task again, this time enjoying the slow relaxation which came over her face.

"So this political term then, what is it?"

"It's a good one."

She smiled, "She _is_ funny. Terribly clumsy, and terribly emotional, but funny."

"Well, she calls me a Clarisse-ist."

Clarisse tensed momentarily, fear pushing its way to the front of her mind, before she came to accept that her granddaughter was a very good keeper of secrets. She had been for a while now.

She's cleverer than we give her credit for too."

He laughed, "Indeed she is. But she's always polite about it."

Clarisse leaned forward and cupped his cheek, "I like 'Clarisse-ist'. It has a certain ring to it."

"It's also very accurate," he kissed the palm of her hand, "It's the perfect way to describe my political...and personal leanings."

"Well anything has to be better than a republican," she wiggled her toes, "You were at your job serf."

He laughed loudly.

"I love you, even if you are a snob."

"And I love you, just the way you are."


End file.
